Chapter 34
CHAPTER 34
Back in the house, after Max had bathed and dressed in his newest cowboy outfit—a red-plaid Western shirt and the inevitable denim trousers—and had had a stern talk with his body about staying away from Cally’s delectable form, he adjourned to the kitchen, avoiding the luncheon guests, and had a large meal. His plate full of succulent ham and small, flaky fruit tarts glazed on the top, he dug into the ham first, hungry and thirsty, and refreshed from his hot bath.
A consultation with Creede and Roy at the jail followed, after which he sent another telegram or two, then he returned to the house through the back kitchen door, venturing into the back parlor only when he was assured by Mrs. Zandt that all the guests were gone.
Afternoon sun glimmered off the parlor’s wood-trimmed furniture, the room quiet, the sounds of Main Street—still full of revelers—muted at the back of the house. Sun glimmered off the polished oak floors, a big, elegant rug covering much of the room. A soft-green silk upholstered much of the furniture, matching the floor-length curtains, with a flowered velvet love seat serving as an accent.
An ivory-colored wainscoting and crown molding reminded him anew he was in the nineteenth century.
Wearing her pink dress from earlier, Livia sat near the tall French doors on the flowered love seat, her knitting in a pile in her lap, the pastel-yellow yarn looking as if it had progressed only a handful of stitches from two days ago at the ranch. A rectangular coffee table in front of her held a silver tray of brown bottles and tall glasses, along with a platter of the chocolate-laced bar cookies that seemed to be a favorite of the family’s, the scent of chocolate faint in the air.
Dressed in cream muslin, June followed Max into the room just as he was sitting in the green silk chair across from Livia. Closing the heavy wood door behind her, she—and Livia—gazed at him with determined looks on their faces.
Standing up again at her presence, Max raised a suspicious eyebrow at the two of them. “Now what?” he said in a wary tone. Had someone heard him with Cally in the stable? No one could have seen them, not with the door closed, or through the high window. But he’d been lost in her touch, oblivious to his surroundings, for God knows how long.
His heart pounded faster. Damn it, had he ruined her reputation?
June sat in the green silk chair next to his.
Livia set her knitting in the small basket on the floor beside her. “You realize,” she said to Max, “you passed the third test for Cally’s suitors today.”
His heart flipped. Not ruined, then. “Which test is that?” he said, sitting slowly down in his chair again.
“Rescue her from a fire-breathing dragon,” Livia said, and despite her words, there was no humor on her face.
He furrowed his brow for a moment, his heart still running a bit fast. “In other words, I rescued her from a man—the dragon —with a rifle—the fire-breathing part—who was aiming to shoot her down.”
June’s eyes flinched.
“I beg your pardon,” Max said, chagrinned. He reached for one of the brown bottles—sarsaparilla, he’d had one at lunch—and snagged one of the tall glasses, offering them first to June and Livia, who each declined.
“The point is,” Livia said, “you passed all three tests.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “You came from a long distance, you entered an ogre’s castle, you rescued her from a fire-breathing dragon.”
All three tests for Cally’s potential bridegroom. Whom he most certainly was not. Something he had to keep reminding himself of. Just the thought of her made his body leap to attention, and he had already berated himself ten times over for what they’d done in the feed room.
No more being alone with her, he’d told himself every second since then. No more temptation to undress her.
To make love to her.
“Why are we having this conversation?” he said, picking up the plain metal bottle opener from the tray with a nonchalant motion entirely at odds with his swirling thoughts. A quiet fizz came from the sarsaparilla as the bottle’s metal cap came off, sending the scent of licorice and vanilla in the air. “I’m not an eligible suitor, remember? I’m leaving soon, catching the next flash flood out.”
“Because she won’t let you go easily,” June said in a quiet voice. “She will pine after you leave.” She offered him a small porcelain plate from the tray and gestured at the cookies. “I want you to make this as easy for her as it can be.”
A deeper hush filled the room, Max’s heart wrenching at the thought of Cally pining for a distant, unreachable him, Max’s heart wrenching at leaving her behind. “What will you have me do?” he said in a low tone. Stay home from the dance? Stay away from the Sky Top?
His stomach clenched. Leave the state?
“Three quests,” Livia pronounced.
“Quests?” Max said, his eyebrows raising. “I thought they were tests.”
Livia reached for her own sarsaparilla. “We decided those were too easy.”
“ Easy ?” Max said, thinking of tumbling head over heels in a boulder-and-log strewn flash flood, of bursting into Hugo’s damned castle, of rappelling down high-thread-count bedsheets.
Of racing head-on toward a man with a rifle. “But I already passed them all.”
“That’s what we mean by too easy,” Livia said, opening her bottle. “Like the first test—travel a far distance. It’s not that many miles between the Sky Top and the spot where the flash flood dumped you. And it was Cally who actually made sure you got to the ranch.”
“ I came here from the future. ”
Livia smiled. “Too hard for the Prince of Partydom?”
“Not at all,” Max said, sitting taller, his words crisp, a tiny flicker of hope in his heart. Maybe, just maybe, with the help of Cally’s mother and sister-in-law, he and Cally could be together. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he said to Livia.
She grinned.
“But quests ?” he said.
“You are a prince,” June said with that same maddening twinkle in her eye that Cally sometimes had.
Max poured his drink into the glass, more fizz in the air, more scent of vanilla and licorice. “I’m guessing this first batch of suitors was a bust.”
June nodded. “Not a one of them is right for her.”
“Not even Finn?” he asked.
“No,” June said. “Not now that she’s experienced you.”
Max felt his face heat. Did June know what had occurred in the stable? Did she suspect?
“I’ve seen how Cally looks at you,” she said, and Max realized that for the first time in his presence she was calling her daughter by her nickname, not the formal ‘Calliope.’ “I’ve seen how she acts.”
Forcing his hand to be steady, he took a sip of his drink. “How does she act?”
“I think you know,” June said.
“Not anymore. Not after today.” Not once the events at the race began to really sink into Cally’s brain. As far as Max knew, her kisses in the stable were just a reaction to the gunman, a release of adrenaline in a very human way. “Once she thinks about it, every time she looks at me, she’ll think of Hugo. Maybe not right away. But over time…”
“Nonsense,” June said. “She’s smart enough to know you had nothing to do with his actions.” A pained look crossed her face that was so like her daughter’s. “Any of his actions.” She sat back in her chair, seeming to shake off those memories, her graceful hands making a slight adjustment to the folds of her skirt, June as prim and elegant as her daughter could be, and he thought of June astride her own stallion, riding beside Cally, and he realized it was more than facial expressions and features the two had in common.
Somehow, he had a feeling Mr. Bart James Senior had fallen as much in love with a vibrant tomboy full of vitality and demure womanliness as Max had.
“You’re just the kind of man I’ve always hoped for Cally,” June told him in a lighter tone, as if they were discussing the party last night, or the luncheon that day, not the happiness of her only daughter, June shifting so easily between society matron, outraged mother, and twinkly eyed conspirator with Livia. “Honorable, thoughtful, kind, generous.”
“Generous?” he said.
“I know what you’ve done for the ranchers Hugo has victimized.”
He felt his face heat again. “Righting a wrong, June, and with someone else’s money.”
“But most of all, you accept Cally for who she is. She can curse like the most foul-mouthed ranch hand, and you’re amused. She can beat you astride her stallion Apollo, and you kiss her hand and laugh.” June looked him in the eye. “You risked your own future to keep her safe.”
“I don’t think my ancestor was in any mortal danger during our fistfight.”
“I’m not talking about him, Max. Did you ever consider that Kuthbert might have pulled the trigger on you ?”
Max’s thoughts jerked reluctantly back to that moment when he’d been racing full out atop Ares at Kuthbert, back to that moment when he’d crossed the sight line between Kuthbert and Cally, blocking her from the rifle’s aim. “Not in that moment,” he said. “There wasn’t time.”
June smiled. “That’s what I mean. You risked yourself to keep her safe.” Her gaze turned toward the windows for a long moment, the brilliant blue sky clear of clouds, framing the mountains in the distance. “I don’t know in this moment what is right for my daughter and her future,” she said, her gaze coming back to Max. “All I know is that time brought Livia to Bart, at a moment when I’d been despairing he’d ever find his way to a loving wife. If time has brought you to Cally, then time has selected a worthy suitor for her.”
“Time might just as well spit me back out to the future,” he said, that heart wrenching happening again in his chest.
“Well,” June said, not looking terribly happy about it all, “only time will tell.”
Max was just finishing up his sarsaparilla and a second bar cookie when a knock came at the parlor’s door to the rest of the house.
Max braced himself. If that was Cally, he wasn’t sure he couldn’t keep the news they’d kissed—passionately kissed—off his face.
He wasn’t sure she could either.
June called out, “Come in.”
The glass doorknob with brass fittings turned.
Bart stepped into the room. He’d changed out of his gray suit into denim trousers and a long-sleeved blue Western shirt. In his hand he held a yellow telegram.
“News?” June said.
Crossing the room to the rest of them with a grim expression, Bart nodded. “Sam received a telegram from the King of Zalgravia.”
Max’s heart lost a beat at the grave tone in Bart’s voice. Had he meddled too far? Had he created a new problem for them all, one that would change the future in a way that would come back to haunt him and all those he cared for?
He glanced at the silver trophy cup sitting in the place of pride on the fireplace mantel. Afternoon sun struck its smooth, polished surface, not a dent to be found, unlike the cup he’d held in the future, the trophy seeming to taunt him. “Is that the telegram?” he asked, nodding at Bart’s hand.
Bart sat beside Livia on the flowered love seat. “Sam wanted you to hear what it said.” He unfolded the thin paper and read: “‘Be assured the problem you reported has been addressed.’”
“Wow,” Livia said. “Addressed how, given that the king is across the Atlantic on a different continent?”
Bart raised an eyebrow at Max. “This could be the moment Prince Hugo’s funds have been cut off.”
Max nodded. “It would explain his fury yesterday afternoon when he first came into town and received that telegram from Monahan. The king would have already received the telegram I sent him in Creede’s name.”
“History playing itself out on schedule?” June said.
Max fervently hoped so. At least, that part of history.
Livia picked up her knitting, her face worried. “He didn’t seem any less angry today at the racetrack. I thought for a moment he was going to challenge you to a duel, Max.”
“That would require fair play on his part in front of witnesses,” Max said. “That’s not Hugo’s style.” He set down his glass. After this morning, he had a feeling Hugo would try to kill him if they ever did duel. And Max would be terrified to harm his ancestor, knowing the consequences to himself and his family. “Even so, I’m a danger to you all now. Hugo won’t let what happened today at the racetrack go without some form of retaliation. I’m not even sure he still believes I’m the Duke of Balmont.”
“We don’t abandon our friends,” Bart said.
“Or family,” June said.
“At least we won’t have to deal with Prince Hugo at the party tonight,” Livia said.
“Oh, he’ll be there,” Max said, feeling as grim as the others.
“He wouldn’t dare,” Bart said.
“He’ll dare,” Max said. “I guarantee that this very moment he feels himself to be the aggrieved party, that he should have won the race, and received that damned silver trophy.”
Livia gave June a worried look.
“No,” June said in response to Livia. “Cally is going to that dance tonight if we have to hire half the town to keep Prince Hugo away from her.”
“I’ve already talked to Creede,” Max said. “He’s put deputies on Hugo and Hugo’s remaining employees—I think he’s down to one equerry and one henchman. And I’m not letting Cally out of my sight.”
“You understand, then,” June said, any objections over his calling her daughter Cally seemingly gone.
Max gave a grim nod, thinking of the three quests she’d charged him with moments before Bart had knocked on the door. “Cally’s reputation comes first.”
“I pity your country under Prince Hugo’s rule,” she said.
“He never became king,” Max said. “His father lived well into his eighties. Long enough for Hugo to have three sons and four daughters in wedlock, and two grandsons from his firstborn son. Hugo died in his sixties, a year before his father. His eldest son, my great-great-grandfather, was next in line.”
“Except your great-great-grandfather hasn’t been conceived yet,” Livia said.
“Right,” Max said, and there was that horrible foreboding again. “I’m curious,” he said. “Why didn’t you buy the Crown of the West when it went up for sale?”
“We’ve tried for years to buy that land,” June said, “but Horace Walford wouldn’t sell.”
“It never officially went up for sale,” Livia said. “It took the riches of a foreign prince for Walford to let it go.”
“Or a beating and a contract signed at gunpoint,” Bart said in a disgusted tone. “Depending on which rumors one listens to,” he added, leaning forward and pouring a sarsaparilla for himself. “You have any idea what brought your ancestor here in the first place, Max?”
“I’ve always thought he was influenced by the king’s love of the dime novels about the Wild Wild West, using his purchase of land here as a way to ingratiate himself with his father.” Max shook his head. “Not that it worked.” But he’d always be grateful the Crown of the West was in his family.
“Walford always told folks he had gold on his spread,” Bart said, “but no one ever saw any evidence of it. Perhaps Prince Hugo was greedy and wanted the land for that.”
Max nodded. Hugo was definitely greedy. Greedy and dangerous.
Tonight, they would all have to be on their guard.
That evening, standing in front of the tall, oval, mahogany-framed mirror in his elegant ivory-and-blue bedroom, Max straightened the cuffs of his new dress shirt. The fine white cotton was sleek against his skin. The fit was perfect, and he gave kudos to the tailor he’d hired yesterday, who’d been recommended by Bart. Not only had the man met Max’s rush deadline, but the workmanship was excellent.
Max fastened the heavy gold cufflinks he’d bought that afternoon at the jeweler in town—a small shop, catering to both the everyday and for special occasions—the cufflinks as sleek as the shirt and each shaped like a galloping horse. The taste of his peppermint toothpowder lingered in his mouth.
Tweaking his black bow tie, he grinned at himself in the mirror, admiring the nineteenth-century sight: his freshly washed dark hair brushed back in loose waves, his face shaved with the old-fashioned straight-edge razor that had terrified him the first time he’d used it; the trousers of his formal black suit, this suit new and as perfectly tailored as the shirt; the new pair of expensive black cowboy boots, which seemed to serve as formal attire in the town, with black on black stitching.
If only his assistant Nelson could see him now. He’d think Max had stepped right out of the pages of the online databases he’d used for his research of this time.
Max’s grin faded. Too bad they couldn’t consign Hugo to the past. If Hugo was at tonight’s town dance, he’d be in a rage. A silent, icy rage, but a rage nonetheless. By now, the job offers Max had made through the saloonkeeper Stubby to Hugo’s local staff at his castle—ranch hands and dam workers included—would have likely been accepted. Not many people could afford to turn down a tripling in their wages, nor a change in employer that traded arrogant, abusive Hugo for his respectable neighbors.
Listening to the faint sounds of the others in the house—indistinct murmurs, quiet footsteps—he slipped on his black evening jacket, enjoying the fine lightweight wool. Bart had told him most people at the dance would be dressed up compared to their daily work clothes, but few would be as formally attired as the evening suit Max was wearing.
But Max knew that if Hugo was there, he would be wearing one of his ridiculous uniforms, likely one covered in gold braid and with even more medals than usual, and as a ‘royal duke,’ Max wanted to be every bit as impressive as his ancestor. If there were going to be fireworks between him and Hugo, he wanted to have every bit of ammunition on his side: Hugo would not consider him a worthy opponent if he arrived at the dance in anything less than this formal suit.
Besides, he thought, his heart beating faster, he wanted to impress his Miss Calico. All he had been able to think about the rest of the day had been their kiss in the stable, the feel of her soft, questing hands on his bare chest, her sweet mouth against his.
Cool down, he told himself, his body going to a place it shouldn’t go, not now, not while he was in the past. Not for a young woman he could have no future with, unless—as June had hinted that afternoon—time decided to give him a hand.
He took a last look in the mirror. Took a few slow, deep breaths, getting a whiff of the orange-and-clove scent from his bath.
Girded himself for battle, and not only with Hugo.
Tonight, with her mother’s approval—and he was still a bit stunned about that, though the approval had come with conditions—he would make Miss Calico’s suitors work hard if they wanted her hand in marriage.
The heat of the day had begun to cool when Cally arrived with Max and her family at the town hall, walking up Main Street from their house, Cally’s hand tucked around Max’s elbow. The sun was still high in the blue sky, though it had shifted somewhat toward the west.
And all around, whole families, from young ’uns in their mothers’ arms, to grandparents and older, converged in a chattering, convivial mood on the three-story brick building, everyone spruced up in their best clothes to celebrate.
Cally felt excitement bubble up inside her at the festive air. Or maybe the excitement was all due to Max, his arm warm beneath her hand, his tall, handsome body—a respectable distance from hers—giving off warmth as well, and clothed in a finery that had taken her breath away when she’d first seen him at the foot of the staircase at home, his broad shoulders set off by his formal black suit coat, his handsome face shaved smooth, every inch of him looking like the prince that he was. His presence made her pert near dizzy, her mind tending to reflect on how they’d kissed each other in the stable.
Her cheeks warmed at the memory. Her body…well, she reckoned her body was doing what was normal for a woman who’d found a feller who suited her just fine.
She wondered what her body would feel—wondered what her heart would feel—when that feller left for parts she couldn’t follow him to.
A warm breeze fluttered the blue-and-white banner hanging across the top of the town hall’s tall white columns at the front. Blue-and-white streamers stirred from the white-painted cupola tower at the top of the building.
The flowerbeds edging the front lawn were bursting with colorful blooms, the main walkway of flagstone leading up to the marble front steps filled with their sweet scent.
“Howdy, folks,” Stubby called out, coming up the flagstone with Miss Tillie Madsen on his arm. His highly polished cowboy boots tapped on the walkway, his denim trousers and white hat pristine. His Western shirt was decorated with swirls of gold embroidery on the pockets.
Miss Tillie was more formally attired, wearing the old-fashioned, bustled lavender ballgown she wore to every town dance, her white hair up in an elegant bun. Her arms and hands were bare, like Cally’s—the ladies of the town had decided that the heat of an August evening spent indoors crowded together and dancing outweighed the propriety of wearing of gloves.
Ma gave them the smile she reserved for good friends. “Good evening, Miss Tillie, Stubby,” she said, and the three of them chatted with Bart and Livie as Cally led Max up the front steps and through the white columns into the town hall itself.
Marble-floored corridors branched off left and right from the high-ceilinged entryway. Straight ahead, wide double doors opened into an immense, wood-floored room that took up most of the ground floor, and it was through the double doors Cally took her prince.
A low stage had been set up in the back corner, where Jimmy Lang, who would be calling out the dances, and a small orchestra—fiddle, guitar, and accordion—were getting themselves settled. The metal folding chairs used for town meetings were arranged now around the walls for folks to sit and talk, leaving the center open for dancing and mingling.
Oil lamps in brass sconces lit the room at even intervals, a new hundred-candle chandelier in the center giving off more light. And already, the room was half full, voices humming in a steady sound, laughter punctuating the hum.
Folks in general faced the main door, not wanting to miss each arrival to the party, and they watched now as Cally and Max strode inside.
The women focused on Cally’s prince, but she didn’t pay them any mind. She knew her prince was hers alone.
The men…well, the men of Mule Stop—excepting for Finn—were lookin’ at her like they hadn’t seen her before, and she reckoned they hadn’t, not dressed up like this, their stares as much shock at the change in her as anything like admiration.
Though she knew she looked mighty fine in her fancy violet-blue satin dress with the square neckline and short, puffy sleeves—the expression on her prince’s face as she’d descended the staircase at home had told her that—and for the first time in her life she didn’t mind the ribbon-and-lace trim on the dress, nor the elegant, upswept hairstyle Ma had made of her hair, nor the way her petticoat gently puffed out her skirt, its silk rustling as she moved.
With Max at her side, she found she was downright embracing the womanly feelings both dress and hairstyle gave her.
Though maybe the womanly feelings were due to Max, his body smelling of his orange-and-clove soap, his voice full of his Zalgravian accent—she couldn’t imagine a handsomer feller than him. “You’re certainly making an impression on your suitors and their parents,” he said with a smile, nodding to the left toward the refreshment tables.
Her suitors.
She sighed. She’d forgotten about them while she’d walked to the party down Main Street with Max, feeling at home with him in a way she never had with any of the courting young men she’d met, whether in Mule Stop, Denver, or Cheyenne. But Ma had made her promise to be attentive to them tonight, though Ma knew her heart wasn’t in the effort. ‘They’ve come a long way,’ Ma had said as she’d fastened the sapphire earrings she’d just given Cally onto Cally’s earlobes. ‘They’ve brought their parents as a sign of good faith. I want you to focus on them tonight, not Max.’
Cally had wanted to protest, but Ma was right. It wouldn’t do to make enemies of her suitors and their families. Her family had enough of an enemy at the moment in Evil Prince Hugo.
He wasn’t there yet at the party. Her first gaze around the big room had assured her of that.
If he had any decency, Ma had said, he wouldn’t be there at all.
“What kind of impression?” she asked Max in a wary voice. She’d been cleaned up and dressed like a demure lady for Ma’s luncheon after that morning’s horse race, but the suitors’ mothers seemed to have only seen in her the hoyden—their words—who’d won a horse race—a horse race! one of them had exclaimed within Cally’s hearing—and she wasn’t looking forward to spending any more time with them.
But Max’s eyes had shifted to the open double doors at the front of the room, and Cally followed his gaze with hers. And reckoned Evil Prince Hugo had no decency at all, for there he was, striding into the hall as if he owned it.